No Sacred Space
by gigerisgod
Summary: Forget Ba Sing Se. What if Jet and Zuko met under much different circumstances. AU. Spoilers through "Jet".
1. Chapter 1

The sun is directly overhead as Jet crosses the field on foot. His ears prickle with the sound of the cicada's buzzing song, rising with the day's heat from somewhere out in the brush. He tips his face upward to feel that pleasant warmth radiate over his closed eyes and the apples of his cheeks, enjoying the desolate quiet.

Jet hasn't spotted any sign of the fire nation on this patrol yet and there's a part of him that wants to enjoy that by cutting loose for the afternoon to fish, just laze about on the riverbank and pretend life's normal for a little while. It's tempting, but he won't even consider it before finishing his rounds. There's more to think about than just himself nowadays.

The wheat grass brushes against him as he walks, tickling at the bare skin of his ankles and his shins where the ragged hem of his pants end. He's got nothing against growing up, but it sure as hell makes it tough finding clothing that fits. Hand-me-downs are hard to come by for the tallest member of the group.

That's the trouble with being a kid, always outgrowing shoes and clothes. No wonder parents bitch.

He winces at that. Jet still tries not to think about things like parents too often. Even now, years after the fire nation raided his village the loss of his father feels like a fresh wound. It only helps to think about his father when he's fighting, remembered pain that gives him something to draw strength from, anguish that lends greater momentum to the swing of his hooked swords.

He doesn't like it when things get too quiet, leaves him alone in his head with memories that have nowhere to go except down. Sometimes though, he can think about his Dad and separate the good memories from the crushing loss of him.

His father's voice plays back in Jet's head when he least expects it, clipped pieces of conversation mostly. Sometimes it's a laugh, more often it's just a word or two in that deep timber Jet feels like a distant heartbeat. Those bits are brief and cutting, leaving him with an ache that no balm can soothe. Memories like that go deep, down into the bones. Still, it's a comfort, something good and pure that's survived even though the man himself is long gone.

Those are the times when Jet wonders if he'll be anything like him when he grows up – if he'll be the kind of man his father would have been proud to raise. But he was young when Dad was killed and so he clings to the precious few things he does remember - big, skilled hands, honey brown skin, deep-set eyes and a broad, kind face. Dad was all muscle and bulk where Jet was lean and wiry, something his father casually dismissed because of Jet's age. But Jet never saw enough of his father's likeness in his own reflection, no matter how hard he looks or tries to remember and the disappointment gets a little harder to take every time.

The thing is Jet will never really know if he compares to his dad and it gets more difficult to picture his features as time goes by. All the people that knew Jet and his father are either dead or gone, so it's not like he can even ask anyone.

He can't remember the good things without pain and it only ends up turning bitter and ugly, festering inside him like something putrid and rotten. He feels like it's getting worse too, fears if he's not careful he might lose control over it and that frightens him a little, though he hates like hell to admit it. All he can do it try to keep a lid on it, channel his energies with strategy and planning to stay ahead of the curve.

He controls the rage, it doesn't control him, but sometimes even he isn't a good enough liar.

Jet plucks a fresh stalk from the grass and chews it lightly, the taste of it earthy and green and alive as he draws air deep into his lungs. Jet loves this place. He belongs here, is connected to it the same way the cicada is and every other creature born to the valley.

Then the scent of smoke hits him and he's instantly reminded of other things that clearly have no business being here.

There's a dark column of ash lifting into the sky just over the next ridge. It's at least a mile away, but Jet is willing to bet it's another fire nation encampment. There are more of them springing up all the time. Earth Kingdom forces are spread too thin to be everywhere, especially out on the fringes of their territory. He knows this better than anyone, but he can't just sit back and watch the fire nation occupy his home - not if he has anything to say about it.

Well, so much for a lazy afternoon of fishing.

Part of him is sorry about that, but the part of him that is itching to bash some fire nation skulls isn't sorry at all. Day after day, it's what keeps him going.

After scouting, Jet checks his traps and pulls a small rabbit from a snare. He cleans and prepares the game, roasting his dinner over a tiny fire as the sky streaks a deep blue and the first stars peek out. He rotates the spit, listening to the hiss of rendered fat dripping into the fire, his mouth watering with the savory smell. Jet toys with the stalk of wheat between his jaws, turning the meat in simple, repetitive motions, his mind lazy and wandering while he waits.

* * *

><p>Jet was told his mother died of fever while he was very young and so he has no memory of her at all. You can't miss someone you never knew. It was his father who raised him alone, keeping him at his side as he worked. It's why Jet remembers swords with the same fondness as the trees.<p>

The trees have been a part of Jet's life from his earliest memories. They were the places where he used to play and his shelter from the elements. He used to think they could keep him safe, before he knew better. Jet is old enough now that he knows no one is really ever safe anywhere.

And yet, even when the illusion of safety had been burned away, the trees still managed to be comforting somehow.

There was an ancient cypress in his village that he can still see in his mind. It had low, twisted limbs that were easy for most kids to reach, full of knots and bumps that made neat footholds, a perfect tree for learning to climb.

Jet's father used to mark his height on that old tree using the hooked ends of his shang gou, scoring the bark from the time Jet could stand on his own. Back then Jet was a lot smaller than other kids his age, which wouldn't have been so bad except it meant he had to wait to begin formal sword training.

Jet hated waiting. Not as much as he hated the fire nation, but it drove him crazy.

Dad had been a master sword smith. His reputation had begun to spread across the Earth kingdom and beyond. Jet remembers how big his arms had been, corded with muscle from working his craft, forging and shaping steel into pieces of deadly art as he watched in awe.

Jet's dreams had been made of steel and the fiery glow of the forge. He had thought it was beautiful then.

Jet has vague memories of the time spent with his dad, climbing trees, fishing on the river banks, and play sword fighting. That was something he wanted to do for real someday.

His father wanted him to apprentice as a smith, so he'd learn his trade, but Jet had other ideas. Jet could appreciate the beauty of a good sword, but being its artisan just wasn't in him. Put one in his hands and that's when things got interesting. Dad said you couldn't fight what was in a man's blood, whatever that meant and so he began making plans to bring Jet to the man he trained with as a boy.

Jet thinks he was supposed to have been some kind of a big shot, a master, but he lived somewhere very far away and Jet had still been too young. He would have ventured off to find him after the raid on his village because surely a friend of his father's would have taken him in, but Jet didn't even know the guy's name or where to start looking.

And then the fire nation came and raided his village. He remembers wanting to be small, so small no one would ever see him. Jet got his wish, but sometimes he wishes he didn't.

During the attack his father hid him in a shallow root cellar at the back of the house. It was a tight fit, even for a short eight-year-old boy. Jet had to cram himself between jugs of berry wine, sacks of grain and cabbages. He pleaded with his father not to be separated, that it would be safer at his side, but his tone of voice left no room for argument. He was told to stay quiet and still until Dad came back to get him.

So Jet stayed hidden under that bamboo floor, listening to the screams and the shouting and the pounding violence of human and animal feet. The uncertainty that came with being alone coupled with his fear of the dark, amplifying every sound, every vibration, fueling his imagination where it least needed it.

The scent of smoke filled his nostrils and his muscles twitched uncontrollably from the tension. Still, he did his best obey, waiting as long as he could, but there was no way to tell how much time had really passed down there and eventually it wouldn't matter. The heat became oppressive and the roar of the flames grew too close, forcing him out of hiding.

When he emerged, the entire village and surrounding wood was burning, a curtain of flame that rose to the top of the tree line. Ash and cinders fell like snowflakes. People were terrified, scattering in all directions, streaking past Jet just as if he really were invisible. And his father was still nowhere to be found.

But he'd gotten a good look at the cause of the whole mess. Soldiers, mercenaries maybe, they trampled anything in sight on their komodo rhinos. Jet had never seen animals like that before and they terrified him. The men were fierce, savage in their destruction and the image of the fire nation emblem on their mounts and flags were as good as branded into his memory.

The really ironic thing is, Jet's father did everything in his power to keep him hidden from those men, but when they finally catch sight of Jet they barely gave him a second look. To them he was just some frightened kid, too small to be a threat to anyone.

He was small enough to pass for invisible. Wish granted.

The air was hot and smoky, which made it almost impossible to breathe and difficult to know which direction to run. Under his bare feet the earth was unnaturally warm, which meant the tree roots had caught fire, smoldering under the ground, soon to overtake the trees at the surface along with everything else Jet ever knew or loved.

Jet found his father's body lying under the old cypress tree.

He'd nearly stumbled over him trying to get away. The fire was already licking at his clothing, putting off just enough light for Jet to see that one side of his head had been caved in. The eyes were sunken, staring outward, dull and lifeless.

The fire was taking him right before his very eyes and there wasn't anything he could do about it. His father was too heavy to move by himself. He wouldn't even be able to salvage his body for a proper burial.

But in his horror the firelight caught something reflective. It was his father's shang gou, abandoned in the dirt. Jet's father would not be coming back for those any more than he would be coming back for him. He gathered the swords up, locking his hands around the hilts, running before the fire caught up with him.

The world as he knew it had ended. Jet ran until his feet bled, until the billowing smoke and orange light in the sky was somewhere far behind him.


	2. Safety In Numbers

He wandered aimlessly for weeks after the massacre, scavenging food and shelter wherever he was lucky enough to find it. His father had taught him the basics of trapping and fishing, skills that no doubt helped along the way, but they would only take him so far.

Jet's village had been remote, set in the vast wild lands of the Earth kingdom. Like an omen of things to come, he'd been orphaned during the start of the rainy season where the weather could turn to shit on a moment's notice. The land was cut by several long stretches of desolate rural roadways, any of which could take him to other villages and farms, but they were also traveled by outlaws - thieves, smugglers and slavers. His youth and his size put him at a terrible disadvantage. Until Jet could fend for himself, he needed a place where he could fit in.

So he kept to the roadways when possible and hid from strangers. He would take to the trees and watch newcomers from a distance before making the decision to approach someone. He paid close attention to the way others dressed, how they spoke, where and when their eyes shifted, how they moved their bodies. There were clues in the simplest of gestures. Eventually he would be able to anticipate how a person would behave; developing his intuitive sense until he felt confident enough to rely upon it like another limb. All you had to do was figure out what someone wanted. After that, the rest came easy. Well, most of the time it did, anyway.

The fire benders that destroyed Jet's village weren't the last he would see, far from it. The heavy tread of boots and glint of red armor would send him running for cover, shaking like a leaf. He wasn't ashamed. After all he was alone then, young with no food, no shelter, and no guardian to look after him. He wasn't ashamed, but he wasn't proud either.

He awoke one morning to find himself surrounded by a Fire Nation garrison. They never even knew he was there, but he had to keep hidden for days in a small glen of trees to avoid being spotted and spirits, did he go hungry then.

Another time a farmer chased him through half the Earth Kingdom for stealing some of his cabbages. It had been a desperate grab for anything. He didn't even like cabbage!

He spent more time listening to the sounds of his complaining belly than he ever did eating. His clothing was threadbare and filthy. He was tired of being afraid with no one to watch his back, tired of being all alone. The stress was taking its toll and it showed. He'd begun chewing his fingernails into a raw, bleeding mess, gnawing at himself like a trapped elephant rat.

There was no one to go to for help, nothing to be done about his misery except to shove his hands into his pockets and keep going. He still had his pride and his hatred to hold onto and he refused to look any more pathetic than he already felt. His luck would change and when it did he would be ready.

* * *

><p>Jet became a military brat for a while, tipping off Earth kingdom soldiers to any Fire Nation activity in the area. Usually he got no further than a grunt or a lieutenant, but one time he's taken to a full ranking commander and the moment they met, Jet likes him instantly. Built like he carved himself out of a piece of granite and yet friendly as hell. Just the sort of person Jet needed. A kid could get in and out of places pretty easily and Jet began giving him information in exchange for food and a cot. It was a good arrangement, but the Commander made it clear up front he wasn't drafting children into combat no matter how bad things got. His help was valuable and appreciated, but he didn't want Jet getting any ideas about joining the ranks.<p>

Jet had didn't feel too badly about it, though. Sooner or later he'd convince the guy to let him fight and until then the food was decent and regular and the bed was nicer than anything he'd slept on in months. In the meantime he'd prove his worth.

Also, it really felt like he had made a friend. Even the other soldiers seemed to like having him around. Jet felt _safe_ for the first time since the raid on his village. It wasn't something he was willing to give up anytime soon, so he made himself useful by running errands, carrying grain and supplies, doing any task that needed doing, anything that would get him a pat on the back or a friendly ruffle of his hair. Anything just so he could stay.

The Commander had been a lot like his old man, looked like him, too with those broad, round shoulders, the long, corded arms and that warm smile. The man even knew how to use a sword, which was a little unusual for an Earth bender, but Jet wasn't one to complain. On the training field, Jet even recognized some of the moves his father had shown him. It made him realize his Dad may have been military trained.

And it didn't seem like Jet was the only one making comparisons. He's pretty sure he reminded the Commander of someone he cared about, too. There was something in the gentle tone of voice he never used with anyone else but Jet. He could chalk that up to being the only kid in camp, but there were times he caught the Commander looking at him strangely. If he had only one word to describe that hollow expression, sad was the only one that ever came to mind. It would make his heart contract sharply at the sight of it, a pain shared and understood on some unspoken level.

So he thought about it some and maybe he played up the orphan angle a little, but it wasn't like Jet didn't like the guy, so what was the harm? Like Jet didn't need a friend.

Suddenly his biggest disadvantage had become his best asset. After all, few people suspected a small refugee kid of spying and best of all Jet didn't have to take orders if he chose not to. There was no reason not to keep spying for the Commander and the experience he gained about both Fire Nation and Earth Kingdom military practices was invaluable.

His instincts about the Commander paid off. He took Jet under his wing and became his teacher, training him to use his swords the way his masters had taught him. He put everything he had into becoming the best student possible, working through each set of exercises until he could do them backwards from memory. The Commander told him he was a natural and Jet beamed under his praise.

It seemed his luck had finally changed for the better.

He had no way to know it would soon blow up in his face.

Jet hadn't noticed how much time he'd been spending with the Commander. Weeks quickly became months. There were small reconnaissance missions, but no mobilization. He realized he was getting attached, but like everything else, Jet figured he could handle it. But then he wasn't really the problem.

When their garrison finally received their orders Jet was itching for the chance to face Fire Nation troops in combat. He had already mastered some very difficult techniques and was getting stronger, too. He needed larger clothes all the time. They had to let him fight.

Jet still remembers the buzz through camp as soldiers loaded gear and weapons preparing to march to battle. He didn't have much to take, his swords of course and some homemade explosives a few of the younger soldiers had lost to him in a lucky game of Pai Sho. All that excitement fell through when the Commander entered his tent just days before they were ready to leave. Jet will never forget how sorry he looked. Like someone kicked his dog. Jet wanted to slice that expression clean off his face because Jet knew instinctively what it meant. It meant he wasn't getting to go along.

He felt perfectly numb, as though he were someone else listening as the Commander sat him down and told him it was time he found a proper family to adopt him. He told Jet there were families in the Earth kingdom that needed help if they were going to survive, that Jet was a smart boy, fair and strong enough to carry a man's share of the labor. Any family would be glad to have him.

Jet knew he could never go back to that kind of life. It felt like he was getting left behind and suddenly it was his father leaving him all over again. He would rather die than have to suffer being abandoned a second time.

Jet tried to convince him to let him go, but it did no good. The Commander dug his heels in and refused to budge, stubborn as the rock beneath his feet. There was no way he was going to take Jet anywhere near the front and threatened to encase Jet in stone cuffs if he got any ideas about disobeying his orders. His tone of voice was as kind as it had always been with Jet, but he meant what he'd said. He'd restrain him if he thought he had to and his men would back him up on it.

Somewhere in the logical part of his mind Jet knew the guy was only trying to protect him, knew he cared enough not to want him hurt, but his words had already done something ugly inside. There was something about his assumption of authority over Jet that just infuriated him.

Jet's father had been murdered and no one else had the right to tell him what to do except the Commander was doing exactly that. He told Jet it was time to stop the spy games and that a boy his age belonged in school. He didn't understand _this_ was the only education he ever wanted; swords and fighting and killing the Fire Nation on his own soil. What did he think he was doing all this time? What was his training for? What good would it do to send him away now? This was the life he was being bred for. Why couldn't he see that?

Even if he couldn't see, nobody was going to boss Jet around, no one. He didn't get to have it both ways; he couldn't both reject Jet and expect him to do as he said. It was time to draw the line and stop pretending. He wasn't Jet's Dad any more than Jet could have been his son.

The conversation quickly became a shouting match (mostly Jet) and somewhere in the middle he loses his shit like a stupid kid. He cursed and railed at the guy while the Commander stood with his arms crossed and listened but in the end it didn't change a fucking thing. The whole business was messy though neither really says goodbye. Jet regrets leaving it that way immediately, but his hurt and his pride won't allow him go running after him.

Out of spite or some lingering sense of obedience (he's still not sure which) Jet kept clear of the front. He stayed behind at camp with small retinue of soldiers and medics. Maybe he was too small to make much of a difference either way, but he sure as hell would have tried.

What's left of the Commander's garrison returns about a week later, a mere fraction of the men that were deployed. Half the survivors limp their way back carrying the wounded on makeshift litters. The casualties were staggering. Everywhere Jet looked he could see the horrific signs of burn trauma, catch the stink of charred flesh and hear the agonized cries of the wounded. The Commander was not counted among them and somehow that's even worse. No one would tell him what happened, but he sees enough for himself. Heartbroken and devastated he leaves soon after.

The Commander took Jet in, trained him, tried to do the right thing by him and Jet got pissed at him for it. Even now he can't even come up with the guy's real name, only his rank. He feels deeply ashamed. It's just like he can barely remember his father's face sometimes. What kind of person forgets things like that? It seems as though he's always left with the worst memories but struggling to hang on to the good ones.

* * *

><p>Jet falls in with a small band of refugees after that. They travel from one squandering village to the next, passing for an acting troupe. They may have started out honest street performers because a few of the members show some genuine talent, but somewhere along the line they must have hit a rough patch and by the time Jet meets up with them they're little more than a band of opium addicts, funding their growing habit with thieving and a dilapidated traveling show.<p>

If there's one thing Jet's learned on his own is that there's safety in numbers and here he could run with the pack and still be left alone to train in peace when they weren't performing. Jet learns how to lift money and goods while the other members of the troupe keep unsuspecting villagers distracted with a few hours entertainment, usually with little dramas about the death and destruction being spread by the Fire Nation, something he knew a thing or two about. By the time anyone's the wiser they've moved on.

Admittedly, they're not the best bunch of folks to hang with, but it ensures he doesn't get too attached and they pretty much let him do as he pleased, which Jet could especially appreciate. The only thing off limits is stealing from the group itself, but Jet figured people who spend a lot of time hallucinating probably weren't going to miss a few coins or some rice here and there and his loyalties were always his own.

One afternoon temptation gets the better of him and he does something stupid and careless. The meanest of the bunch, a bastard named Renshu catches him in the act. He wasn't taking much, but Renshu beats Jet so severely he loses consciousness and when he wakes up it's to a world of agony, to a body so bruised and swollen he can scarcely recognize himself in the mirror.

Jet knew he was taking a risk, but he wasn't expecting anything so brutal in terms of punishment. No one helps him afterward. Not one person will so much as mention it or look him straight in the eye – well, the eye that wasn't completely swelled shut, anyway.

And Jet knew Renshu was a bully when he came aboard, but he hadn't pegged him as particularly vicious. His erratic behavior is a miscalculation that can be blamed in part on the increased alcohol and drug usage in recent months, but excuses won't make his problem go away. If anything, his mistake almost cost him his life. He can't afford to misjudge someone like that again.

The pain and humiliation Renshu inflict dredge up a lot of repressed violence, but it also set something free. Jet thinks now that it might have been his conscience. He didn't have much need for it anyway.

He took his beating with as much dignity as he could muster. He even went a step further by apologizing to Renshu for taking the money. It wasn't easy. A part of him was dying on the inside the entire time, but he did a convincing job of it. None of those other amateurs could even come close to his performance. Jet let Renshu think he was shamed and just fearful enough not to cross him again. And if Renshu's greasy smile was any indication, he'd done just fine, though Jet couldn't shake the disturbing feeling something between them had shifted. He didn't care for the look in Renshu's eyes when he gets too close or when he puts his hand on the back of his neck, the pads of his fingers lightly teasing the soft spot behind his ear. He has to smother the utter repulsion he felt until he could make an excuse to get away.

The important thing is he's allowed to stay, because even junkies know where their next fix is coming from and Jet has always been the most resourceful of them. Even Renshu knows that, but since suspicion isn't the only thing Jet's aroused, he's careful, knowing all too well he might not survive another vicious beating if no one is willing to risk their neck for his, which they aren't.

He avoids Renshu like the plague.

As disillusioned as he was, Jet still liked being the guy the others look to. Granted, this usually meant supplying opium to a bunch of junkies, but that mattered less than how it made him feel; Jet had people that depended on him and he liked it. He liked it so much that he was greedy for more, though he wasn't sure how to go about getting it.

By the time the worst of his cuts and bruises finally heal, Renshu's moods had become more unpredictable and violent. Some of the women begin wearing stage makeup as a daily necessity to camouflage the bruises. A few of the men disappear between one town and the next. Jet feels sorriest for the ones who are too far gone, too dependent or weak to stand up to someone like Renshu. Someone should stand up to him.

He could do it. He had more than enough reasons to and he's thought about it. He's thought about it alot.

His body had finally begun to mature and his last growth spurt put him at an even better vantage to wield his hooked swords. He was looking less like a boy and more like the man he would someday be. Of course, this might explain the escalation in Renshu's lecherous advances, his touches happening more and more frequently and with greater possessiveness. It was only a matter of time before the inevitable happened and Jet had no plans on sticking around for that kind of abuse, but he wouldn't be driven away either. The solution comes to him with alarming ease.

The Commander taught Jet the best ways to kill a man. Whether they were a bender or not made little difference. Underneath everyone bleeds the same color.

Jet paid close attention to learn which places were best to strike to immobilize, the ones to suffocate, the soft places that bring the worst pain - ways to draw it out or end it quickly, though the Commander probably hadn't realized he was training Jet to be an indiscriminate killer. He only wanted him to be able to take care of himself, but Jet sees no reason why those lessons should go to waste. And someone really should stand up to Renshu if only for the others' sake.

One night under a pale moonlit sky, Jet walked between the bodies of his companions lying stretched out staring at the stars, their senses thoroughly dulled with opium. Jet scored the stuff and packed the pipe himself after their last show, made sure there was plenty to go around for everyone. Renshu, that dumb fuck, patted Jet on his head like a good boy and bragged to him about the pleasures of lying with women until he laughed himself insensate.

Jet found Renshu sleeping apart from the rest of the group later that night, his face still obscenely streaked with greasepaint, eyelids twitching with opium dreams. He startled when Jet came close but after a few moments opened his bedroll, patting the space next to him. His long braid hung over his shoulder as his eyes raked over him greedily. He thought Jet was there to bed down with him.

Jet did not hesitate. He stepped in and made the killing blow, delivering one blade to the throat and the other to the soft pumping muscle deep within the chest. Renshu's eyes grew wide and disbelieving while his hands shook and trembled. Satisfaction spread through him like rays of warm sunshine and Jet leaned close to make sure his smile was the very last thing Renshu saw. There was very little struggle and the rest slept on undisturbed. Jet doubts any of them would have batted an eye even if they had seen what he'd done. He takes a few moments to absorb the weight of his actions and then wipes his blades clean.

He doesn't regret killing the man in his bed. It wasn't cowardly. It was payback and a man like that should've known better.

Jet's aspirations ran deeper than a petty thief and occasional drug runner. Those people had needed him, but only for their next fix. There were no friendships, no comfort or protection, no loyalties to honor. He'd already done the others an enormous favor by ridding them of Renshu and the time had come to move on. Jet had outgrown his situation the way he'd outgrown his clothes.

He found a footpath that cut through the hillside and left under a clear starlit sky feeling better - no, _lighter_ than he'd felt in months. He'd proven something to himself and the only way it could have been better was if Renshu had been Fire Nation.

* * *

><p>Jet's mouth waters with the first taste of freshly roasted rabbit meat. He's too hungry to wait for it to cool, so he burns his fingertips tearing away the first steaming chunks. The one side is charred, but the rest is edible.<p>

There's a night owl somewhere close by. Jet listens carefully to the sounds it makes and imitates it, adding a new bird call to his already impressive collection.

He's a creature of his surroundings and Jet fills his belly, content with that thought.


End file.
